


Oh wake me in my house in the mud

by fairywearsbootz



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, a softer meme-ficathon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-07
Updated: 2013-11-07
Packaged: 2017-12-31 19:37:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairywearsbootz/pseuds/fairywearsbootz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt at <a href="http://roslindi.livejournal.com/">roslindi</a>'s <a href="http://roslindi.livejournal.com/7412.html">a softer meme-ficathon</a>. The prompt was: <i>x-men: first class, erik/charles, "sex is the only game where a draw is better than a win." </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh wake me in my house in the mud

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to [LJ](http://fairywearsbootz.livejournal.com/8327.html) on 05-09-2012.

In chess, to win you don’t capture the king (kill the king, torture the king, execute the king), you simply declare checkmate and leave it to your opponent to admit defeat. It’s the way of civilized men — it’s the equivalent of waiting for the commander of a besieged city to hoist a white flag, of granting your enemy the grace of a duel while your army surrounds you; of handing your nemesis his cup of hemlock with a courteous bow.

To Charles it's a thrill, the way Erik leans forward in his chair, his hands folded and his eyes hungry for the short-lived bliss of victory. Charles likes to linger in it, likes to draw it out, the moment where he’s not yet lost, the anticipation of an inevitable end, the moment like a held breath before he downs the poison.

 _Checkmate_ , Erik says, and Charles smiles, and admits defeat.

#

It’s not about win or lose — it’s about how you lose.

That was Charles’ first lesson, drilled into him by his step-father’s belt, drilled into him by his mother’s vacant gaze, drilled into him by nights kept awake by bruises and cuts on his too thin body.

A smirk at the right time, tinged with blood; to get up again, and again, and again, just to be beat down once more until winning seems like a chore and a failure — those were the first weapons Charles knew.

Giving up is just a way of saying that you’ve found more interesting ways to hurt somebody.

#

Losing against Erik is like honey in a dark night, like sweet wine on a golden afternoon, is the push and pull of the tide under a moon bright with silver. It’s the net Charles weaves around Erik while he doesn’t watch his back, because every time Charles retreats a step, Erik follows hot on his trail.

 _What do you know about me?_ Erik says and Charles answers, _everything_ , with a smile that lays himself at Erik’s mercy, with his throat bared for Erik’s grip, and Erik snaps back, victorious once again, and stays.

Charles counts it as one of his better losses, or maybe wins, or maybe nothing of both — by now he’s at a point in his life where he can’t really tell anymore which is which. If victory glows in the copper of Erik’s hair against the white walls of Langley or defeat, if his shadow on Charles’ tongue and in his dreams is loss or gain; if his blood sings an elegy or an ode when Erik brushes past him in the long halls of the mansion.

#

And then there are, in no particular order: the spines of books digging into his back, Erik’s hands warm on his hips, a ray of sunlight golden on the skin of Erik’s shoulders; a hot breath on his neck and the solid weight of a body against his. Erik’s eyes are still hungry, but maybe not for the things Charles thought, and Charles still likes to linger, but not in anticipation of something ending. And maybe this time, this one time only—

 _Checkmate_ , Erik doesn’t say, and Charles smiles, and doesn’t admit defeat.  


 


End file.
